Spey-casting The LA River.
perhaps I would
trod the concrete slumped, sloped bank,
refuse, rank, stacked, grounded upon rocks
by swaying avenues of oasis-like lush green,
the rush of freeway traffic; fervent lives,
sinking thought by water, like fake tied flies,
searching for slack runs, pools, content,
bubbles, foam fooling, while jetlagged, sore,
or wade away from the hand-smoothed path,
rod, a staff, till distant, by limp, lining trees,
crossing islands; haphazard, flagrant steps
snagged, bugged by hordes, thick as mist,
spey-casts, rolls, overheads, yet all still missed;
working, searching for water-pigs, elusive;
sandpipers, stilts, all lined in a fair bunch,
serene, fatigued, away between stone streams.